Popcorn
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [Post!series, DavidChristopher SLASH] A drabble in which the Sennites shoot stuff, David is tired, and Christopher is good at sneak attacks and shifty motives.


_Popcorn_

by Kay

Disclaimer: I've written this so many times that I just don't care anymore. Sigh. Noownthnx.

Author's Notes: Timeline set after the series, maybe a few years. Christopher x David slash, though brief and non-graphic. Just an excuse for Christopher to sputter something about popcorn because I'm so hungry. Sorry it's not very... erm, well, when is any of my stuff fully formed? THANK YOU FOR READING, ANYWAY. (hugs)

* * *

"It sounds a little like Jiffy pop," Christopher says.

"It doesn't sound anything like Jiffy pop," David responds flatly. He has the sword pressed to his forehead, letting the broadside of the blade cool the sweat beading there. It still smells a little like blood. "It sounds like gunfire. Jesus, Christopher."

On the other side of the tent, Christopher shrugs listlessly. He hadn't even tried to get up on the cot—two steps in, his ankle had crumpled and now he sits in the dirt. The tiny jug of homemade ale one of the Vikings gifted to him permanently sewn to his fingers. Sometimes David wonders if he has no shame, right before he _knows_ Christopher has no shame. "Well, maybe I'm just hungry."

"You're a moron."

"A hungry moron, then. Screw you. Where's Jalil?"

"Don't know. Somewhere. Maybe." David tries to think, but the exhaustion is creeping up. He's seeing black spots every time he swings his head to the side so he just stops moving. Tries to stop breathing. "I don't know."

"Dead," Christopher says. "Just our luck."

That stirs something; irritation, red and itchy. "He's not _dead_. He takes tallies after every battle, he's probably out counting troops and being more useful than _you_."

"That hurts." Christopher's laughter sounds hollow in the dark, and when he presses a hand to his heart jokingly, it just stays there, resting limply against his mud-caked tunic. "Hurts right there."

The anger subsides. "I wonder if they'll send more," David muses, absently. He stares at the arch of the canvas, the shadows of the tent almost like the night sky, anyway. Maybe better. If the sky had been as close as this, maybe the world would be safer. Or more dangerous, less places to run.

They're running out of places to run.

The Sennites? David closes his eyes. Or them. Yeah. It's becoming a big mess. War is always a big mess. No one wants to clean it up, either, it's the mother of all frat parties, and Christopher's head is drooping against his chest like it's too heavy to keep up anymore, his ankle stretched out in front of them. They won't be able to hold much longer. The Sennites—soon, maybe, they'd run out of bullets. Maybe. Or maybe David is wrong. Jalil would know. Where is Jalil?

"They should send more," David says. "We're running on our last waves. I'm not…" He stops, grimaces. Galahad's sword is leeching all his body heat, the relief is more like oppression now, so he drops it to the ground with a clatter. Later, he'll pick it up, wipe off the blade. It's important to wipe off the blood and grass and muck at the hilt. Otherwise it'll be ruined.

"We're all going to die, I bet."

"No," sighs David.

"If we die," Christopher continues, ignoring him, "I want a damn big funeral. I think I deserved it."

"Big stone. Fine."

"With lots of pretty crying girls."

"And Jalil spitting on your grave." The image makes David grin tiredly for a second. "And I'd have to make a speech."

"Nah, you're both dead, too."

"Poor April."

"Nope."

"Dead, too? How?"

"Nasty incident involving a tub of butter and a radio."

"Don't have radios in Everworld."

"Oh shut up," Christopher says, but he's laughing. A boneless, half-drunk, half-mad smudge against the dirt, but laughing. Hollow sort of chuckles, like he's stuck inside a bottle and can't get out. "What about you?"

"Me?" David tries to lift his head and fails, so he just lays there instead. "I want to live. Gotta keep going. If I don't—"

"I like that," Christopher murmurs, and when David twists his neck around to catch sight of his face, it's unexpectedly sober. "If I was leader, everyone really would be dead. You're doing good, Napoleon."

The mud's in the corner of his eyes; it burns. "Thanks. I guess. It's not over yet."

"It's because there's a distinct lack of fat ladies around to sing," Christopher explains. He gets to his feet roughly, stumbling. David watches and wonders how he can stand to walk. But he does, right over to David's cot, and maybe David should have expected it but maybe Christopher hadn't even known so that makes it okay.

"Hey."

"Napoleon," Christopher answers, flashing a smile that's still too white for this backwards age. This close, he smells like sweat and alcohol, the bruise on his temple a purple lump that makes his left eye more red than blue. When he sits on the cot, the middle sinks down and David sighs.

"Christopher—" And it hits him suddenly like a spilled drink over the floor, washing up over him, the threshold of realization crossed. "I'm glad you're here," David tells him, because it's surprisingly and disturbingly true. He's glad Christopher's here. In the mud, in the entrails, marching, fighting, drinking, making terrible jokes that fall flat in the air and rot. He's glad. It's the only face amongst his men he can pick out, the last trace of familiarity in this alien world.

And he's just glad.

"I'm really glad," he repeats, half-stupefied. Christopher stares at him. It's enough to say the words now, still blank after battle, still on the verge of passing out and for the first time, really actually wanting to just go home. "I'm… yeah."

The horns blare outside.

Christopher's eyes don't leave his own. They're sharp now; intent for a drunkard, too much like drills. It's the look Jalil gets when he's found something vital to a successful plan. "Time to go," the blond says.

"Yeah." He tries to sit up. Fails. Hisses through his teeth.

Christopher is chewing his lower lip. "Stay here for a while, then come out. I'll take care of shit," he says, still observing David carefully. "Chill, General. This is what underlings are for."

"… fine." Because he can't get up even if he wanted to, David knows. It's humiliating.

"And Napoleon—"

Christopher kisses him.

David makes the mistake of trying to inhale and loses all sense of breath.

It's short and not at all sweet, more like the metallic tang of saliva and blood slick against the corner of Christopher's mouth, but then the pressure is gone and David's teeth hurt and Christopher is making a face. The world is fading in and out of shadow. He could sleep for a million years right now and never get up.

"Huh," says Christopher, pursing his lips like he's considering something. "Well. I'm off. Be sure not to die, Batman."

"W-wait," David fumbles, but he slumps back when he tries to stand, his arms shaking from the effort. "What the hell was—"

But Christopher is gone. Against the backdrop of shadow, David reaches for the gleam of his sword and tries once more to stand.

_The End  
_


End file.
